We were standing on the fencing-room floor—Jake Carruthers and I—leaning our backs against the armoury, our foils still in our hands, slowly recovering our breath, after a rapier and dagger contest which had lasted a good half-hour.

He was much less ‘winded’ than myself, for all his sixty-five years; and as I had positively worn myself out against his iron wrist I was delighted to gain a breathing space, and occupied the time in drawing out from my companion some old-time memories of the fencing floor.

‘Have you ever seen a duel?’ I inquired. ‘I don’t mean a semi-drunken, nose-chopping bout, or a garden-party affair, with coffee and liqueurs, as in France, but a genuine “throat-cutting, blood-letting” matter, such as Porthos or D’Artagnan would have loved?’

‘No,’ replied Jake reflectively, drawing the length of his foil lovingly along the soft sleeve of his jacket; ‘the time’s past, I doubt, for that sort of performance. The Divorce Court is what “my lord” appeals to nowadays for “satisfaction,” and Trimmer Joe or Bricklayer Tom, they just “bash” the trespasser upon their family preserves on the head, and there’s an end on’t.

‘The cleverest, best-fought fight I ever saw—and I believe there was a bit something of what you’re meanin’ in it—was, strange to say, twixt a man and a woman—leastways, a gentleman an’ a lady. It was a fair battle, proper fightin’ on her side; for she was sworn to win, and sair wishful to punish him, I’s warn’d; and he, though he was tarr’ble keen to win too, found it took him all his time to keep her from letting daylight into him—an’, by the way, this is the varra tale ye used always to be askin’ for, an’ I’ll tell it ye noo, for ye’ve improved i’ your fencin’, I’m thinkin’, since ye began. You’ll have heard tell of Squire Dennington of Dennington Hall? A great rider he was once, and a sportsman generally—“Jockey Jack” his own private friends called him, and his horse, “Pit Laddie”—ye’ll heard of him?—won the “Plate” some thirty years back.

‘Well, his lady, Mrs. Dennington, was just the proudest woman in the whole county of Northumberland—scarcely what ye would call “bonny,” but just tarr’ble handsome, and the Squire, he fair worships her. He had married her in Berlin, and there was some queer odds an’ ends o’ stories about her, but he’d never have hearkened to them any more than he would listen to anyone shoutin’ to him the way to go out hunting.

‘He was in the army at that time, ye ken—the Northumberland Fusiliers, “The Old and Bold,” with “Where the Fates calls ye” in Latin for their motto—and I was his man-servant, joining the army along of him, as my forbears had often done with his forbears beforetime.

‘The Squire had to go out to Berlin with his mother, and he gets leave for me to accompany him, and there it was that he met with his lady that was to be—Miss Maxwell as she was then.

‘She was the handsomest woman in Berlin, ’twas said, but quite poor, living as a companion with the wife of one of the Ambassador’s party, being a kind of cousin, and many were the stories about her.

‘Gossip said that one of them grand dukes with a name a yard long had wanted her for his mistress, but when he made his proposition he got such an answer that he never dared speak to her again. Then it was reported that she was engaged to the Ambassador’s chief secretary, Oxencourt his name was—Sir Henry Oxencourt as he is now—and that she had even run away with him, but that at the last moment he turned round and said that he couldn’t afford to marry her till his father died, so there and then she leaves him, walks the night through till she can get a conveyance, and arrives just in time to stay the mouth of scandal from ruining her reputation.

‘Well, the Squire meets her, falls desperately into love—for he cares nothing for gossips—and in three weeks’ time she accepts him for good and all.

‘They marries at once, and travel for a year or more, and finally settle down at Dennington Hall.

‘The Squire after a bit sends for me, buys my discharge, makes me his body-servant, and sets up the old banqueting-room as a fencing hall—for he was always tarr’ble keen at fencing, boxing, single-stick, and all manly sports—and it was part of my duty to give them both a turn of fencing most mornings of the week.

‘Well, one winter, after about three years of marriage, the Squire goes off to Algeria to shoot gazelle, leaving Mrs. Dennington and his sister behind at the Hall, and he hadn’t been gone more than a week before Sir Henry Oxencourt turns up at the Hall.

‘Well, when I see him there, I was fair dismayed, for I kenned nicely there was but one thing he could be wantin’, for his repute in the matter of women was notorious. Forbye that ancient gossip at Berlin had always reported that he had been mad at missing his chance with her, and had sworn he would win her back again—get her a divorce and marry her himself at the finish.

‘His father had died since then, and he was now a rich man, and as handsome and masterful a man as ever I saw in my life.

‘Well, he comes and he courts her the live-long day, quiet-like and respectful, but never missing an opportunity, and she seems to enjoy his company. They go out hunting together; she dares him to jump this and he dares her to jump that, and so the play goes on, and all the while I was fearing he was getting a fast hold upon her, for she liked power and was tarr’ble ambitious, and Sir Henry, they said, might have been one of the cleverest diplomatists in the world if he could but have kept clear of women.

‘It was easy to see that he was just mad keen for her, but I was not so sure after a bit that she was so keen for him. It seemed to me she was leading him on, and leading him on, but with what purpose I couldn’t guess.

‘Well, one afternoon she comes to me and she says, off-hand like, “Sir Henry Oxencourt would like to show me some new tricks of fence he has learnt abroad; kindly see that the fencing-room is in order to-night, and, by the way, I want to show him the pair of duelling rapiers, with the silver foxes on the hilts, that Mr. Dennington is so fond of.”

‘Well, all afternoon I wondered what it meant; for though her manner was cool enough, there was something curious about my mistress’s expression as she gave her orders.

‘“If possible,” I thinks to myself, “I’ll have a peep also at Sir Henry’s tricks to-night,” and as I polished up the rapiers that afternoon I thought of the story the Squire used to tell of them. One of them had a stain on the “foible” which would not come out for any quantity of rubbing—it was the blood, the Squire said, of a certain “Black Rutherford,” who had made love to the then Lady Dennington when her Knight was away fighting for King Charlie. Sir John comes back, having heard about it, but says nothing, and asks him to dinner; they have a game of cards after; Sir John accuses him of cheating, and there and then in the banqueting-hall they have a set-to with their rapiers before my lady’s eyes; in five minutes Sir John disarms him, and before the rapier touches the floor, runs him clean through the right lung and out below the shoulder-blade.

‘Well, after taking in coffee that evening, I went to the fencing-room, and on the pretence of looking after the fire, mending jackets, straightening masks, and so forth, stayed on there till about ten o’clock, when in comes Mrs. Dennington, followed by Sir Henry.

‘She gives a sort of start when she sees me, then she says curtly, “You needn’t stay, Carruthers,” and walks past me into the middle of the room.

‘Well, I felt bound to see that fencing, whatever it might be, and the only way I could manage it was to go round and up to the old musicians’ gallery at the southern end. If I could open the door without attracting notice, I might then lie down at full length and see pretty well what was going on below.

‘It took me the best part of five minutes to open the door and squeeze through, and when I had crawled to the ledge and looked over, the two combatants were just about to begin. ‘“Put the letters on the mantelpiece,” I could hear her say with a curiously strung tone to her voice, and Sir Henry bowed in a mocking sort of way. Then he says slowly, after having walked to the chimney-piece and placed a packet on the shelf: “But it is not quite fair, of course, for you cannot see your stakes, whereas I—I have mine before my eyes at the end of my blade—the most beautiful stakes in Europe,” and he bowed again to Madame with an air of gallantry and passion and arrogance all in one.

‘For reply the mistress only gave a quick nod with her head, nervous, impatient, like a racehorse that must be away.

‘I daren’t do more than peep over now and again, for the lights were bright below, and I was afraid of being caught; but I could see that she was in a state of great excitement, while he was cool in comparison with her, and wore a proud, triumphing sort of air, as of one who knows full well he has the victory in his grasp. ‘They walk to the centre of the hall and take their stands. They “take length,” and then salute—she, swiftly, nervously, he in a foreign, bravado sort of fashion.

‘“First blood,” says Sir Henry, “and the stakes are won,” saluting once again in a vainglorious way he had.

‘“Yes, but not for a scratch,” replies my lady swiftly. Then they cross rapiers, and the play begins.

‘My sangs! but it wasn’t a play at all, it was a reg’ler battle, a fair duello, and it was all Sir Henry could do to hold his own. They had engaged in “quatre,” and no sooner had blades touched than she disengages and feints in “tierce”; then, with an amazing swiftness, she disengages again, and lunges full at him in “sixte”; carelessly he parries with “sixte,” and in a flash she disengages again, “beats” his blade downwards, and, for all but a biscuit, has him disarmed. He loses hold of his weapon, his fingers slipping from the quillons, but catches it in mid-air before it drops, leaps back a yard, parrying another lunge clever with his left hand as he does so.

‘“’Tis a dirty Italian trick ye have learnt! they haven’t improved ye abroad!” my lady sneers at him.

‘Now, had she been but one flash of an eye quicker with her lunge after the “beat,” she’d have had him in “quatre” nicely, but she hadn’t thought she could disarm him so easy, and she just missed her chance. Sir Henry, though, had had his lesson; he drops his careless, tempting manner, such as a professor tries a beginner with, and fights cooler and more careful, chucking his bravado airs, for it’s dead in earnest she is, and no mere stage-play for the gallery.

‘On she comes again like a tigress, evidently trying to “rush” him, and back and back she presses him till the pair o’ them’s right under the gallery where I was lying. I had my head right through the bars by that time, I was so keen to see the fight, and it was only by stuffing my handkerchief into my mouth that I could stop myself from shouting advice and encouragement to her, she fought so desperate keen and with such a wild-cat pluck.

‘It wasn’t exactly scientific, her fencing, it was too rash and all-for-victory straight away, but it was grand to see her flashing her rapier in and out, flickering like a serpent’s tongue, and all the while her graceful limbs moved softly, swiftly, like a panther’s, beneath her silken evening dress.

‘Once Sir Henry’s foot slipped, and in she comes like a knife, and he only escapes by adopting another Italian trick—that of dropping with the left hand to the floor. She still presses him harder than ever, and I could hear her breathing hotly, “heck, heck,” like an angered hawk. Then swift he “binds” with her, but he does it over-viciously and pays for it, for she’s agile as a cat, and freeing herself with a leap backward, suddenly with a lightning-like “cut-over” touches him on the sword arm, and though he wouldn’t acknowledge it, I knew she’d pricked him, and I could tell that it had roused him to anger in his turn. “You she-devil!” I heard him hiss between his teeth, and now he turned to the offensive himself.

‘He was at a disadvantage, though, for he didn’t want to hurt her badly, being a woman, so he tries to disarm her, and give her some slight wound on the sword arm, or high in “quatre” or “tierce.”

‘That was no good, as I could have told him nicely, for she had the strongest and supplest wrist of any woman ever I saw, and forbye that, disarming can only be done by taking your opponent unawares, and she kenned nicely what he was after.

‘Then sudden he gies it up, seeing the uselessness o’t, and tries a brute strength game, waits his chance till he can lift up her blade, and then thrusts sideways so as to pink her high in the shoulder, but she twists aside and it only just touches her through the sleeve. “First blood!” he shouts triumphantly, “the stakes are mine,” with a low bow and a sweep o’ the sword arm. “Phit!” she cries passionately; “it’s only a scratch,” and she comes again at him with a bound.

‘Then he loses his temper a bit, I think, for his own sword arm was bleeding, as I knew well, for I saw a drop or two of blood on the floor and his hand was crimson forbye. So he comes to meet her, quickly driving her back in turn, plying his rapier this way and that fiercely, just missing her by a hair’s breadth to frighten her, till he could have her at his mercy, and then he tries a “cut-over” in “tierce,” swift as a meteor, pressing his “fort” strongly against her “foible,” and would have been home sure as fate had not his foot slipped on a drop of blood on the floor. Up flies his rapier idly—she with a sudden flip tosses it higher still, and with a leap, by Gox! she ran him through in “seconde”—just above his right hip.

‘“Hurroo!” shouts I, through my handkerchief and all. “Clever, clever!” for it was splendidly done—scientific, exact, just perfection.

‘There Sir Henry lay in a swoon upon the floor, for no doubt the pain and the shock together would be immense, while my mistress, she just takes one look at him, then wipes her rapier swift upon her handkerchief, takes up Sir Henry’s also, and places them against the rack in the armoury, takes down two foils, throws one on the floor, breaks the other in two and flings the pieces down beside its fellow. Then swift as ever she goes to the mantelpiece, takes up the bundle of letters and chucks them into the fire.

‘She watches them burn for a moment, then presses the electric bell close by, and just as John the footman walks in at the door Sir Henry comes to himself, and lifts himself up on to his elbow off the floor.

‘“Help Sir Henry Oxencourt up to his room,” says she, cool as a cucumber, “and tell Carruthers to attend to him, and to send for the doctor, if necessary. A foil broke as we fenced, and Sir Henry, I fear, has suffered through the accident.”

‘John stares with an open mouth, but a peremptory “Don’t you understand?” from his mistress wakes him up, and he goes and helps Sir Henry up, who therewith slowly rises, and, resting one hand on John’s shoulder, without one word limps away.

‘The door shuts, and Mistress Dennington turns slowly to the fire, her eyes glued to them letters burning blackly amongst the coals. As she watches she takes a cigarette from a box on the mantelshelf, lights it, and I heard her say to herself, “You fool!” then she smokes a puff or two and again she says, “You fool!” and therewith taps her foot smartly on the floor.’

‘But what do you think she meant by “fool”?’ I here interrupted.

‘Well,’ replied Jake slowly, ‘I’ve often asked myself that very question, and what I believe she meant was something o’ this sort: “Fool not to take your chance—and such a chance!—when you had it, and Fool again, for not knowing me better than to think that of me when ’twas too late.”’

‘And now one more question,’ I said, for Jake was preluding with his weapon once again, evidently anxious to commence another bout. ‘Did you ever tell the Squire?’

‘No, not exactly,’ replied he, ‘but I gave him a hint, and bank-notes wouldn’t have bought that rapier after that, and there it still hangs in Dennington Hall in the armoury, I believe, though I haven’t been there since the Squire died and I set up as a MaÎtre d’Armes in Oldcastle here. The mistress, though, she’s still alive, but she never cared for Northumberland—“so dull,” says she, and goes and diverts herself in London town. And now no more talk. Gardez-vous, M’sieur—en garde, s’il vous plaÎt,’ and with a smile he struck my foil upon the floor.